


As Long As You're Mine

by AmalieCalana



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Genderqueer Character, M/M, No beta we fall like Crowley, Post-Apocalypse, Song Lyrics, Songfic (Sort of), fem!aziraphale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2019-08-27
Packaged: 2020-09-27 12:03:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20407447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmalieCalana/pseuds/AmalieCalana
Summary: Aziraphale always glowed, in that “I’m-an-ethereal-being-of-endless-goodwill” sort of way.  Part of the job description, Crowley supposed. But tonight, Crowley would have sworn that the very atmosphere of the otherwise dark bookshop was lit from the gentle incandescence that seemed to flicker from the angel’s every pore.“You look quite dashing this evening, my dear,” she murmured as she finished her descent. “I always knew you’d look lovely in a tuxedo.”“Ngk,” Crowley eeked out before shaking his head once more and feigning a cough. “I’m always dashing,” he finally retorted before sharply inhaling and letting out an exaggerated sign. “But you look absolutely stunning.”





	As Long As You're Mine

**Author's Note:**

> Woohoo! It's my first time posting on AO3 after probably a decade outside of the fanfic community. Good Omens has given me a new fandom to obsess over. This is basically self-indulgent nonsense, because I've had an image of Fem!Aziraphale in my head for days but haven't the artistic skills to put it onto paper. This will have to do instead. Pure silly fluff, which has never been my bag. It's nearly unheard of for me to write anything without a hefty dose of angst & hurt/comfort, but c'est la vie. What can I say? These boys make me terribly soft.

Aziraphale couldn’t help a small self-satisfied smile as she cautiously blotted the dusky pink gloss. She couldn’t recall the last time she indulged in more than a light smattering of powder, but well, tonight was a special occasion. Crowley had finally—FINALLY—agreed to accompany her to a full production of _Wicked_. Aziraphale didn’t often present this way, she knew. In fact, she wasn’t positive Crowley had ever seen her in more feminine attire, but something about this particular show always inspired a bit of feminine empowerment, and thus, solidarity.

She frowned, her neatly shaped eyebrows dipping in sudden concerned realization. Now that she thought about it, the only time Aziraphale had ever allowed herself to truly slip into femininity was in the presence of other women. She was an angel after all. And there were some hurts that human females would never trust a male-presenting being to heal. 

Her frown deepened, and she huffed as she realized she might have to touch-up the gloss once more before Crowley arrived. She couldn’t help but wonder what it said about her, that she so much often presented as male, no matter her own inherent tendency toward appearing, well, more _effeminate_ than many people may have preferred. Perhaps there was something to be said for Pepper’s insistence in her usual “male privilege.” She resolved to seek out more feminist literature—it was her own responsibility to educate herself, after all. 

Just as soon as the evening was over. 

She shook herself and shoved the guilt and shame under her usual veneer of quiet self-assurance. She had worked too hard since the Apocalypse-That-Never-Was to affect, if not truly _feel_, more confidence in her decisions. Heaven knew—and Hell, too, she supposed—that she had spent the better part of 6,000 years behaving as others said she should, at least in front of observing eyes. And it had almost cost her everything. 

_Not tonight_, she thought with an unfamiliar spark of mischievous pleasure. She glanced in the vanity mirror and watched as her lips twisted into a rare smirk. _I’ve been spending too much time with Crowley lately_, she thought, but cut herself off. She’d been spending just the right amount of time with him, actually. Maybe even too little for her liking. Still, there was time. They would eventually get there. 

The soft ringing of a bell from the shop downstairs sent a rush of all-too-human adrenaline through her veins. She stood at once, giving herself one last lingering look in the mirror, readjusting each pleat and curl, before heading toward the stairs. 

*****

“Angel?” Crowley called into the darkness of the bookshop. He saw the faint light glowing from the flat upstairs and considered slithering up the narrow steps just to annoy Aziraphale. Instead he headed directly into the backroom to snag a quick snifter of brandy to down before they left. If he was going to spend the evening in this blessed tuxedo just to attend an irritating musical, the least the angel could do was provide him a good buzz first. 

“Be right down, my dear!” a slightly higher-than-usual voice called from the flat upstairs. Crowley raised an eyebrow but otherwise did not react, slinking back into the front of the bookshop. He froze the moment he saw a pair of strappy wedge heels step carefully down the familiar creaking steps. 

Aziraphale always glowed, in that “I’m-an-ethereal-being-of-endless-goodwill” sort of way. Part of the job description, Crowley supposed. But tonight, Crowley would have sworn that the very atmosphere of the otherwise dark bookshop was lit from the gentle incandescence that seemed to flicker from the angel’s every pore. The corners of Crowley’s lips twitched down with the slightly bitter taste of his own ridiculous sentimentality. The angel's flickering dimmed. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale breathed, his—no, _her_—smile and eyebrows twitching down at the edges. “Did I—well—have I gotten something wrong?” She looked down at her unusual apparel in obvious discomfort. 

Crowley shook his head and wiped the sour expression from his face. He found his mouth was suddenly dry. Long seconds passed where the two just looked at one another. “You’re an angel,” he muttered finally. “I don’t think you _can_ wear the wrong thing.” 

Aziraphale flushed. “That’s very kind of you,” she whispered, an impish smile reappearing. 

_It wasn’t,_ Crowley thought, taking a few moments to allow his eyes to take in the angel’s even more curvy than usual physique. Her hair was significantly longer, the wispy white locks pinned up into a lovely curly chignon, a few spare strands pulled out to frame her rounded face. She wore a full-length mermaid style gown of ivory and gold brocade with a modest mandarin collar. The flare at the bottom of the gown had an inset of powder blue silk, which perfectly matched her well-manicured fingernails and toenails. He wasn’t sure he’d seen her toenails in centuries. He held back a slight snort when he realized her wedges and the shawl covering her shoulders were both of an almost imperceptible tartan. 

“You look quite dashing this evening, my dear,” she murmured as she finished her descent. “I always knew you’d look lovely in a tuxedo.” 

“Ngk,” Crowley eked out before shaking his head once more and feigning a cough. “I’m always dashing,” he finally retorted before sharply inhaling and letting out an exaggerated sign. “But you look absolutely stunning.” Every bone in his body insisted he look away, make a joke, run anxious fingers through his bright red hair, but he couldn’t do much more than stare. 

If he were honest with himself—and he tried his hardest never to be—he'd always had a bit of a soft spot for Aziraphale’s antiquated but well-curated style. It gave him a strange air of sophisticated elegance amongst the rest of the more gentrified areas of Soho. For all Crowley’s ribbing, Aziraphale’s sense of soft gentility felt safe, secure, no matter that his waistcoat should have been burned a century ago. 

Now, though, that softness melted into every feminine curve, into the swell of her hips and breasts and yes, even the rounded belly that Aziraphale sometimes tried to hide beneath ridiculous layers of wool and velvet. Crowley constantly yearned—and feared—to wrap his arms around that plump frame, squeezing the curves and inhaling his familiar cinnamon fragrance. He was never quite sure what would happen if he’d allowed himself that luxury. Now he wasn’t sure whether he could hold himself back from wrapping an arm around her waist, intentions be blessed. 

“You flatter me, dearest,” Aziraphale smiled, her confidence seeming to return. 

“The great flatterer, that’s me,” he chirped, but when the glow of her blue eyes dimmed a bit he quickly offered her an arm before he could change his mind. “Your carriage awaits, madam.” He knew he didn’t imagine the way her eyes softened under his gaze. “Well,” she cleared an elegant throat and tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. “Shall we?” 

*****

"That was so kind of you, dearest,” Aziraphale gushed as Crowley hurled the Bentley through the darkened London streets. “I simply can’t believe our luck! Idina Menzel not only attending the production but meeting us at intermission for champagne? You really shouldn’t have, my dear. Such a sweet thing, she was, and so modest! I simply cannot wait to add the score she signed to my collection of musical manuscripts back at the shop. I know I already have one with Stephen’s signature, but you know a composer is only as brilliant as the musicians that bring his score to life...” 

Aziraphale continued to ramble as Crowley swung the Bentley into a space that hadn’t been in front of the shop five seconds earlier. Aziraphale startled out of her rambling when she realized the engine had stuttered to silence. She’d not even noticed how quickly they’d arrived back at the shop, though that shouldn’t have surprised her with Crowley’s questionable driving habits. 

“Well, my dear,” she started, suddenly intertwining her fingers in her lap and fumbling for words, “care to join me for a nightcap?” 

Crowley seemed to jump out of some reverie at the question and paused a few moments before nodding. Before Aziraphale could open the passenger door, Crowley stood before her, the door open and a somewhat cautious hand outstretched. She stared at the ground as she carefully maneuvered her wedges to the curb and placed her hand delicately in his. He helped her from the car, but rather than dropping her hand, he hesitantly intertwined his fingers with hers. She flushed but didn’t remove her hand as Crowley led them back into the shop. 

She snapped her fingers as soon as the bookshop door closed behind them, locking it once more and bringing up the lights in one fluid motion. Crowley removed his hand from hers only to place it to the small of her back, guiding her into the back room before gesturing to her usual antique armchair. She slowly lowered herself—how did human women negotiate these form fitting contraptions? She was certainly enjoying the evening, but she doubted she’d don such apparel again anytime soon. She missed her comfortable shiny loafers and waistcoat terribly. But that was for tomorrow. After the wonderment of the show, she felt vastly more confident in the gown than she had in centuries of carefully tailored trousers, and tonight she would take all the confidence she could get. 

Without a word Crowley had disappeared into Aziraphale’s wine stores, quickly pouring healthy measures into glasses before returning and placing one in her hand. Aziraphale hoped she didn’t imagine his fingers lingering on hers slightly longer than was necessary. 

“So, my dear, what did you think of the show?” Aziraphale finally asked when it became apparent Crowley was not going to volunteer any commentary. 

“Hmm?” he asked before he flounced onto the sofa and took a significant swig from the glass. “I suppose it was alright, for a tragedy. Why your masochism insists on such miserable endings I’ll never know.” 

“Tragedy? I’d hardly call it that. I find it much more...bittersweet. Elphaba and Glinda acknowledge their mutual love and respect; Elphaba and Fiyero disappear off to somewhere they can find happiness; Glinda becomes—albeit indirectly—what she’s always dreamed of becoming. Hardly a tragedy, all things considered.” 

“But isn’t it?” Crowley leaned toward Aziraphale in the way he did when he desperately desired to make a point. “You have this so-called heroine, ostracized from birth for a difference she couldn’t control, but who wants nothing more than to be accepted for who she is. She’s got loads of talent and power, but in the end, she decides she’d rather give up all that power to be with some brainless nitwit, who I guarantee you will disappear the moment he realizes what it’s like to be with someone so—well, wicked.” 

Aziraphale froze and stared into her own glass. She sipped at it as she cautiously chose her next words. “I don’t think that’s quite the point,” she murmured. “Elphaba is hardly wicked. I suppose you could argue that her choice to be with Fiyero may not be the most—_advisable_—of actions, but she does love him. They’re so very different, but that’s what makes their bond so tangible. They each need from the other what they don’t have within themselves.” 

She steadied herself with a deep inhale before standing and moving to sit beside Crowley on the sofa. She ignored the way his body stiffened beside her. “As for his leaving her, well, they’ve given up every sort of safety they knew to be together. After everything they’ve encountered, all the pain and anguish, the ostracism, I don’t think he would abandon her. I choose to believe he never could. I know I could not.”

Crowley turned his head slowly toward Aziraphale, his lower lip trembling as it sometimes did when he struggled for words. Oh, how she longed to run a gentle fingertip upon it. She settled for reaching for his long fingers and twining them with hers. He glanced down at their joined hands before looking back at her over the top of his sunglasses. 

“Zira?” he whispered, his voice catching in his throat. Her stomach flipped as she looked into those guarded golden—most assuredly _not_ yellow—serpentine eyes. She leaned over and brushed her lips by his ear, singing softly as he shivered beneath her attentions. 

_Maybe I’m brainless, maybe I’m wise_  
_But you’ve got me seeing through different eyes_  
_Somehow I’ve fallen under your spell_  
_And somehow I’m feeling it’s up that I fell..._

Crowley swallowed hard. “Sauntering vaguely downwards, are you?” he whispered. 

She smiled. “You’ve lifted me higher than you ever Fell, my dear one.” 

“Pfft,” he scoffed, his barriers and his confidence quickly going back up. He leaned his head back against the sofa and stared at the ceiling, a fruitless attempt at nonchalance. “Demon. Falling’s what we do.” 

She frowned and sat back, but her fingers only tightened around his. “And you’re still a far better person than I am in all the ways that have ever mattered.” Crowley tried to pull his hand away, but she would not let go, not now with her own wily serpent right within her reach. “I must have seen this show a dozen times since it opened, my dear, and tonight’s cast would not have even ranked within the top five. Do you know why I wanted so desperately to enjoy it with you?”

“Because you’re a sadist as well as a masochist?” 

She huffed before reaching her hand up to gently tuck a stray ginger tuft behind Crowley’s ear. “Because I wanted to give you a character with whom you could empathize. Moreover, to give you stories of both friendship and love, in hopes you might better hope—might be able to see what is waiting right in front of you.” 

Crowley’s head whipped to the side, his eyes suddenly locked upon hers. Even through the signature shades she saw so much fear, so much distrust, but also, a glimmer of hope. She latched onto that and refused to let it go. “_Come be how you want to, and see how bright we shine,_” she whispered. 

“_Say there’s no future for us as a pair,_” he countered, though he leaned imperceptibly towards her. 

“_Though I may know, I don’t care,_” she returned before closing the gap between them and gently brushing her lips against his. Crowley froze for only a moment before melting into the kiss. When she withdrew, she saw spots of red high upon his cheekbones and smiled. 

“Do I go too fast for you, Crowley?” 

Crowley rolled his eyes, but the corners of his lips—tinted with her dusky pink lip gloss—turned Heavenward in his signature smirk. He shook his head but couldn’t help himself, as she knew he wouldn’t. “_If it turns out it’s over too fast, I’ll make every last moment last._” 

“As long as you’re mine?” 

“As long as you’re mine.”

**Author's Note:**

> This didn't start out as a songfic. In fact, I only tossed "Wicked" out as an excuse to get dear Zira all dressed up. As I was still writing and plotting, "As Long As You're Mine" popped up on Spotify, and off the muse went. Still, all my love to Stephen Schwartz and every single cast member of every single production of the show. 
> 
> At the end of the day, this is a self-indulgent piece of fluff, and I'm certain if and when I'm ready to get back into long-form fic again the angst and drama will return. :-) Still, save an author; leave a comment.


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